


Haunting in the Flesh

by kayliemalinza



Series: Haunting [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006)
Genre: M/M, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-17
Updated: 2007-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Direct sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/292420">Haunting in Thirteen Parts</a>. Jack comes back, corporeal and everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunting in the Flesh

James tells the crew to be ready to sail in five minutes and goes into his cabin. The shadows there are streaked with near-dusk light, but they are dark enough. The corner is again a sentry post with steady eyes.

"You're back!" cries James.

"That I am," says Jack, and steps out of the corner.

James sees too late this is not the restless spirit that graced his corners; this thing is solid and unfettered; his bootsteps rumble on the floor. He is not the ghost, but neither is he the man the ghost had been. For a moment James wonders if this man _is_ Jack; almost nothing of him is as it was.

"How did this happen?" asks James. He does not know if he's asking about Jack's return to life or the changes it has wrought.

Jack assumes he means the first and saunters closer. His gait and smile are almost-mirrors of the past. "The whelps were nice enough to sail to World's End and get ol' Jack out of a troubling situation," Jack says, and his voice is of good likeness, too. The rest of him is strange and yet familiar.

James is as still as Jack was the first morning in his bedroom. He gazes at the skin that doesn't murk or ripple; it maintains its youthful fleece and paling tincture. The kohl sticks out, thick black on too pale, too clean skin. Jack is still dark—no-one would mistake him for an English gentleman—but he is too smooth and light to be Jack Sparrow. That man told stories with his skin. This man is blank sand.

"I fear Mr Turner's and Miss Swann's loyalty, not to mention their wits, has been misplaced," James says.

Jack's hair is cropped short. It curls softly at the tips.

"I won't argue with that," Jack says easily, "but dear Elizabeth was feeling a bit responsible, and I'm not one to stand between a soul and absolution, savvy?" He has no scarf. The orphaned beads and trinkets are strung on fraying twine, a clumsy necklace on his curving neck. James can see Jack's ears.

"What happened to your hair?" he asks. Jack twitches his gaze at that, a sudden adjustment of a prey's defense; scenarios shuffle in his eyes. James knows Jack wonders why he shows no interest in his erstwhile fiance. James is curious about her role in Jack's death, but his current focus is singular and small: those boyish locks, the downy skin. His ghostie come alive.

Jack's reply is cryptic. "There are some things you can never get the smell of offal out of," he says darkly.

"I don't quite follow," says James.

Jack quirks a smile and presses forward. James' legs can move again; he lets Jack press him back. "My corpse was in that beast's belly for weeks on end, you see." His voice is casual but rasps with ragged undertones. He waves a hand and he has no rings; his fingernails are clean. "A peculiarly talented friend of mine worked a spell and what was left of me washed ashore, ready to provide a cozy home for my soul again."

"I don't imagine there was much of you left," says James.

Jack nods. "Aye, the skin and muscle wasted away pretty soon, but there was a goodly layer of it clinging to my bones. My witchy friend was able to... regrow me." He endows the belated word with a black-joy tilt of the head, an ironic stroke of lips. "I tried to keep the hair, but as I said. The smell was murder." That word, too, has a lilt of deeper meaning, but James shakes his head. He stares at Jack's uncovered neck.

"So your skin... your pirate brand and legendary wounds...."

"All gone but the deepest," says Jack.

James' hand is out before he commands it, pulling aside Jack's shirt, exposing Jack's new-born chest. He stares at the scar he knew would be there: a pink-sheened ring of nubbled flesh, bulging like a seam too tightly sewn. Jack is glaring, lost and startled.

"The Kraken has a hell of a bite, doesn't he?" says James. Jack snarls before he can touch the scar and shoves him back against the bulkhead. The pistol is cocked to James' temple almost before he knows it—almost. Jack's muscles are new and not quite trained. "Without your tattoo, how do I know you are who you say you are?" James needles further, the corner of his lips curling up familiarly.

"That doesn't matter as long as I'm holding the pistol, does it?" Jack retorts, his eyes sparking uneasily.

"And how long can you manage that?" says James. He lifts a hand to squeeze the yielding flesh of Jack's upper arm.

"Stop it!" snaps Jack, and shoves him back again. James laughs and lays his hand on Jack's neck. He touches Jack because he has to reacquaint himelf. When dead, Jack was not warm or solid. James swiped a hand through him twice a day, at first to see him scowl, later to see him smirk. By the end it was simply a greeting; a careless wave when James walked past the corner. Jack would wink and thrust his hand through James' belly in return.

Now he clutches the lapel of James' coat. His eyelids flutter when James sweeps a thumb through the curls behind his ear. His other hand still holds the gun to James' head.

"What do you remember of your brief dalliance with death?" asks James.

Jack murmurs into James' clavicle: "I would have gladly suffered cold and darkness but I wasn't given the chance. No flame and smell of sulfur, either. No touch nor taste nor sound. Nothing at all." His voice is deep and strained, his eyes shut tight. He rocks unconsciously into James' hand.

James frowns and guides Jack closer. The pistol barrel slides against his neck and makes him shiver. "That's not right," he says.

Jack slits his eyes open. "What the hell do you know about it?" he growls.

"You were here, Jack," James says gently. "Don't you remember?"

Jack pulls away, face closed up and eyes suspicious. "My memory's been somewhat catawampus lately, so—"

The door rattles. From the other side a crewman says, "Captain, we're ready to set sail."

The pistol is at James' throat, pressing into the hollow between his collarbones. "Tell him to get on with it, then," says Jack, and he is hard and dangerous. He may well have never stood in James' corner.

James clears his throat a bit, shifting until Jack releases some of the pressure. "Embark then, Mr Brightwell," James orders. Jack didn't move the gun enough; James' breath is a sick rasp and his pulse beats fast against the muzzle.

Jack smiles and trails the gun down James' chest, an ironic act of mercy. "Hope your jollyboat is sound, Norrington, or Mr Brightwell and the rest'll have a long swim ahead of them once we're underway."

"They'll go straight to Beckett," James says.

Jack's sly grin makes James' blood flush hot.

"I expect the pint-sized tyrant'll have quite the surprise when he returns to his office," he says, and puts James' hand on his crotch.

It _pulses_. The best whore in Singapore can't have that effect on a man. James tries to yank his hand away but Jack laughs and grips his wrist tighter. He presses James' hand to Davy Jones' heart.

"This time, I've got meself a bit of leverage," he murmurs, sliding the muzzle of his gun below James' ear.

The sails crackle on deck; the sloop lurches, yaws, and glides. Jack releases James' hand but maintains the pistol as they leave Beckett and the port behind.


End file.
